


Knight's Recompense (and Several Other Quiet Love Stories)

by eyegnats



Series: Complacency's Gambit (and Several Other Quiet Love Stories) [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A New Chapter for Faerghus, Complacency's Gambit Epilogue, F/M, It's a love story baby just say yes, Marriage, No Weddings Will be Interrupted This Time, Pregnancy, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyegnats/pseuds/eyegnats
Summary: Six months after the events of the ill-fated Gautier wedding, Ingrid and Sylvain find themselves in a rare moment of repose at Castle Fhirdiad. Yet the lack of work and sudden silence leave room for things that have long gone unspoken, and Ingrid's growing secret has a way of seeping up through the emptied space.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Complacency's Gambit (and Several Other Quiet Love Stories) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008297
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	Knight's Recompense (and Several Other Quiet Love Stories)

**Author's Note:**

> CW: pregnancy, referenced mental health issues, referenced suicidal thoughts, (resolved) communication issues.
> 
> Thank you for reading my small love story! I hope this ending ties everything up nicely for you, and for this little universe.

Ingrid wakes up in a foreign bedroom. It startles her, her body jolting to a sit before she remembers where she is.

House Blaiddyd is a cold castle in the warmest months and wintertime brings in an inescapable chill. Ingrid shivers in her thick nightgown. Light shines through the uncurtained windows. It’s bright where it bounces off the sparkle of snow outside. Fhirdiad is cold, but Ingrid is indoors, and though the hearth in their room was snuffed the night prior Sylvain is an ever-present heater beside her body.

Sylvain shifts. She looks down at him and sees that he is already awake. He returns the blanket she had shoved down over his shoulder. His eyes are lidded in some feint of half-sleep. She knows the dark circles beneath them. He cannot be freshly woken when he has not slept.

“Morning,” he offers her.

“Good morning,” she replies.

“Cold.”

“I noticed.”

“You good?”

She assumes he is referring to her sudden waking more than the weather. She settles back into bed beside him and says, “yes.”

He pulls the blanket over her too. It’s a heavy quilt with plain stitching, warm and heavy overtop them. Sylvain closes his eyes and they lie there, together. It’s a familiar intimacy in an unfamiliar place. Ingrid has not been back to Fhirdiad since she delivered the Blaiddyd heir apparent from Gautier. Even then she had not stayed for longer than a week. There has been a great heaping of work upon her plate, a compound of knightdom and politics. She has been busy, and her duty is far from finished.

“I promised Felix breakfast,” she says, to the ceiling.

Sylvain makes some vague noise of confirmation.

“I promised Felix breakfast with us,” she says, “he wants to discuss our report, presumably.”

The noise Sylvain makes this time is purely a groan.

“Shush,” Ingrid says.

“We just arrived last night.” Sylvain curls over on his side. His arm wraps around her and he says, “’m tired.”

“You should have slept, then.”

“I did sleep.”

Ingrid does not have the heart to chastise him. Instead, she turns to greet him face to face. She pets at his hair. It’s growing long, the wefts easily tousled. He leans into the touch as a loyal hound might. “Go back to bed, then,” she tells him. Her palm settles atop his cheek.

Sylvain grins. “Are you permitting us to sleep in for once, Countess Galatea?”

“I’m permitting _you_ to sleep in,” Ingrid says. “I’m going to breakfast.”

Some of the spark in Sylvain’s smile slips when she removes herself from his arms. He doesn’t protest, but he doesn’t get out of bed either. She feels his eyes on her when she dresses herself for the day but even that does not carry any of his typical lurid compliments. When she finishes the plaits of her hair in the washbasin mirror Sylvain is still under the covers, his gaze still set on her face.

“Last call,” she says to him, securing a sword at her waist and readying herself. She has not reported for duty at Castle Fhirdiad in six months.

“I think I will sleep in,” Sylvain replies. “I need to look pretty for His Majesty’s wedding tomorrow.”

Ingrid hums in agreement. “Don’t forget we’re meeting with His Majesty for tea, today.”

“I would never. I definitely, certainly, remembered that was the plan.”

She steps to the bedside and bends down to press a kiss on Sylvain’s forehead, and then on his lips. When she pulls back it is with some reluctance.

“You’ll be well without me?” she asks. Her tone is one of expectation over concern.

“I’ll be asleep,” he answers.

“I love you,” Ingrid says. “You are well, aren’t you?”

The expression Sylvain gives her is genuine, glinting with—of all great, unknown things—relief.

“I love you,” he tells her. “Have I told you that today?” She’s not sure if that is an acceptable response to her question but in lieu of protest she allows him to tack on one more, “I love you.”

“So I’ve heard,” she says. She leans down once more and whispers, light, “I will return to you.”

It’s difficult to step away from Sylvain. They’ve worked closely together over the past months, concerning Gautier and Galatea and conspiracies and harvests and every faint trace of politics in between. There is an empty feeling in her stomach when she places her hand on the door exiting their quarters.

“...Sylvain?” she asks. She doesn’t look behind her but she can hear the shift of covers as his head perks up.

There are words stuck in her mouth. Great, terrifying words she has kept close to her chest over the past moons—a dozen passing weeks, silent and uncertain. The words are inevitable, but she holds them back still. She says, instead, “just in case I run late with Felix, would you bring my wedding gift to tea? It’s in my saddlebag.”

Sylvain laughs. “Only because you worked so damn hard on it.”

Ingrid does look over her shoulder, now. “Alright, yes, very funny. I’m going now. I’ll miss you.”

“You’re cute. I’ll miss you,” Sylvain says.

“Saddlebag, front pocket. I’ll see you at tea.”

“I love you.”

“This afternoon. Don’t forget.”

  
  
  
  
Felix takes breakfast in what he deems to be his office. His office is actually the two grand rooms off his personal quarters that formerly hosted an entertainment parlor and library, respectively. They have since been turned into a study full of paperwork, and a secondary study full of paperwork and a few shelves of unread books. Ingrid finds him in the former library. His promise of food is laid across a low table in the center of the room. He is nowhere near it. He is stationed at his desk writing a letter with a deadly expression, as if staring down a blade. His off-hand is clutched oddly around the quill.

“Good morning, your grace,” Ingrid calls out. It’s teasing in its formality. Felix’s mouth twists to a scowl as he looks to the library’s entrance.

“Ingrid,” he says.

“You’re working early,” she notes.

“You’re late,” Felix replies. He frees himself from his letter and embraces her. They met each other upon her arrival the night prior, but their six months apart feels like an eternity in need of reparation. Ingrid squeezes him. He knocks his forehead against hers.

“Sylvain is resting after yesterday, so it will just be me,” Ingrid tells him.

“Trouble on the road?”

“Nothing of the sort. It was as easy as one could hope mid-winter. He is simply tired, I think.”

“You’ve both been working hard,” Felix says as they pull away. His swordhand rests at his side. Ingrid notes the loose loop of belt securing his forearm to his coat. A simple measure to keep it from swinging, she assumes. He seems as well-adjusted to the change as she could hope. He has not discussed the matter with her in their letters. He tells her, “I’ve been looking into the report you two pieced together for me.”

“Ah,” Ingrid says, eyes darting back to his face. “I assumed that was what this is about.”

“It’s not, actually.”

Felix pulls a book from the stack. She is surprised to see it is not a book at all but rather a folder, stuffed full of so much parchment it looks bound. He sets it on his desk and pulls a sheet from the top of the file’s pocket.

“For you,” he says, handing it to her. “The date was Sylvain’s idea. Not mine.”

She glances down at the paper. It’s cut from thick parchment, long in width and awaiting to be tied in a scroll. It smells somewhat sour with a preservative treatment. The penned text is ornate. She reads:

 _A Decree of Binding from the Ordination of the Church of Seiros,  
_ _With the Condonation of the Divine Goddess,  
_ _Tied Under Sacred Oath by Bishop Mercedes von Martritz,  
_ _And Witnessed by Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius and Lady Annette Fantine Dominic,_

Ingrid’s eyes ghost across the patient curls of Mercedes’ signature, Felix’s shaky off-hand scrawl, Annette’s looping penmanship—

 _Hereby Designating the Holy Matrimony of  
_ _, Reigning Countess of Galatea, and , Reigning Margrave of Gautier  
_ _On This Day, the Fifth of the Garland Moon, 1188.  
  
_ _May their connection be unbreakable and their joy, unquestioned.  
_ _Stronger together,  
_ _King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd_

Ingrid’s thumb brushes over the wax of the King’s Seal besides Dimitri’s signature. “Oh,” she says, softly.

When she looks up Felix has a dipped quill. “Here.”

“You did this for me,” she says.

“Yes,” Felix replies.

“You had everyone sign this,” she says.

Felix says, “It was easier to get Mercedes’ signature in Duscur than it was to wrestle myself into Annette’s lecture schedule, somehow.”

“You had The King sign this.”

Felix says, “of course.” Ingrid stares at him with some disbelief. The quill in Felix’s hand thrusts forward, his expression growing irritated. “Dimitri was worried the validity of your marriage may be called ‘too convenient’ in the eyes of history. With The King’s hand, it’s law.” Ingrid responds with silence. Felix lets out a huff. “Don’t look so scandalized. He was more than willing. I wish I could get Dimitri to sign his seasonal reports with such enthusiasm.”

Ingrid’s eyes fill with tears.

“Oh,” Felix says. “Oh, fuck, Ingrid are you—”

Ingrid lowers the parchment to her side and uses her other hand to wipe at her eyes. The tears do not stop and she succeeds only in half-shielding her face. Felix hovers at her side. He says, “You’re...” He takes the wedding certificate from her. “Sit down.”

Ingrid allows herself to be sat on the couch before Felix’s proposed breakfast. He places the certificate and quill beside it. Ingrid’s cry has never been very pretty. She has always been too embarrassed at the concept to fully embrace it. The sides of her mouth draw back in an attempt to stifle each hiccup of a sob but only succeed in making her look somewhat ferocious. She wipes at the run leaking from her nose with the back of her hand. She places her face in her palms.

“Thank you,” she tells Felix, muffled behind fingers and weak in tone.

Felix sits beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “You’re welcome,” he says. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. She sniffs. “I’m... sorry. I’m happy. I hope you know I’m happy.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“It’s fine,” Felix states. “I shouldn’t have sprung this on you. I thought Sylvain would be here, and—”

“Felix, I’m pregnant.”

Felix’s voice dies in his throat. “Ah,” he says.

They sit in silence for a long moment. Ingrid doesn’t expect Felix to have any kind of proper reaction, but she does not expect the lack of any reaction at all. Felix seems to be choosing his words carefully. She can sense the hesitance in the silent movements of his jaw. He tests, finally, “congratulations?”

It’s his turn to wait in uncertain silence. Ingrid realizes he’s unsure if this is the source of her tears. She looks to him, and smiles with wet eyes, and nods. He lets out a sigh of relief.

“Congratulations,” he says, firmer. He accepts her into his embrace, again. His head rests over her shoulder and his arm wraps around her back. He squeezes her tight.

“I haven’t told Sylvain.”

“He won’t mind.”

“I’m scared to tell Sylvain.”

“He won’t. Not if it’s yours.”

“We have so much work to do, and he’s not—He’s not well, right now. I don’t want to thrust this, all of this, upon him.”

Felix lifts himself from her to stare intently into her eyes. “He’s put this on his own plate as much as you have.”

“I suppose,” she says.

Felix mulls something over in his mind. He settles upon some unknown decision, and tells her, “you two need to take a break.”

“A break,” she repeats. As his words sink in, with no further elaboration, she scoffs, “a break?”

“Yes. I already planned on easing off on my requests from you.”

“We do not need a break,” Ingrid says, straightforward. “We are at the precipice of a new world. There is no time for breaks. We need to steel ourselves—prepare for this change, as all others.”

Felix looks unmoved by her manifesto. “A slight reduction in tasks, then. A refocus on the needs of Gautier and Galatea. However you want to pitch it to yourself. I gave your report to Ashe and Dedue.”

Ingrid draws still. “What?”

“I’ve handed the investigation to them, with Annette on call for research,” he says. “They’ll look into it.”

“That’s…” Ingrid feels herself grow a bit indignant. “There’s evidence that this could be a conspiracy going all the way back to The Tragedy, if not further. The implications are far reaching, and Sylvain and I—”

“Did excellent work uncovering it,” Felix states, to her.

Ingrid is not angry. Not truly, but her voice still scuffs when she says: “you lessen our burden out of kinship, in the sacrifice of duty.”

Felix seems primed to accept this. He is unbothered. “I have asked you to lead Galatea in your father’s suspension,” he says. “I have asked you to lead more than an even half of Gautier as Sylvain pieced himself back together. I have asked you to investigate every hidden corner of the incident that transpired six months ago. I have asked so much of you, Ingrid, because I knew you could handle it. And now I am asking you to rest.”

Ingrid does not reply.

“Ashe and Dedue can handle this,” Felix says.

“I know,” she replies.

“Then don’t be so visibly upset,” Felix says, voice harsh. 

She knows he does not mean it. Ingrid is trapped somewhere between the logic of his reasoning and some deep, instinctual rise of emotion in her heart.

“Felix…” she trails. 

“Yes?” he prompts.

Ingrid feels her hands clutch together in her lap. She braces herself against the inevitable.

“I am not going to be a knight anymore.” Ingrid’s lips are tight. “Am I?”

Felix is silent. They both know the answer. There are territories to guide. Electorates to establish. People to protect in ways that don’t mandate a blade. Felix knows this better than anyone, his sword hand belted to his side. He says, eventually, his eyes struggling to stay upon her, “you were always more than a knight.” He dips his head in a standoffish nod. “To me.”

Ingrid nods back.

“Fodlan needs you more than Dimitri,” he says.

Ingrid nods back again. 

“I’m sorry, Ingrid.”

“...I think,” she starts to reply, her voice soaked in a mix of emotions. Grief, for her position. Relief, empty yet light, for sharing a closely-guarded secret. “I think I am ready to eat, if you are.”

Felix lets out a single, simple laugh. “Let’s,” he says.

“Let’s.”

“I know you do want to discuss your report, though. We can meet after the wedding, with Dedue. I’d value your insight.”

Ingrid says, “I look forward to it.”

“And I will wrangle Sylvain to sign your wedding certificate. You two can do it together, later.”

Ingrid reaches for the spread before them. She plucks two pieces of toast for her plate. She takes more than a fair share of a meat pie, and a few large strips of bacon. “Ingrid,” Felix says, as she plucks a jam-filled bun from a pastry pile. Her head pops up from her food to see him, his expression serious. “...I meant it, and I do mean it.”

“Hm?”

“Congratulations.”

  
  
  
  
The royal gardens are an enclosed but well-groomed courtyard in the heart of Castle Fhirdiad. The ceiling overhead is glass, the roof of it swept of the night’s snow. It magnifies the sun’s rays just enough to provide the warmth and conditions for tough, native flora to grow in the winter. Garden tables and fine, delicate tea sets have been placed around the indoor lawn. The greenhouse stylings are enough to not need a cape, and a few of the varied, gathered guests have foregone formality enough to drape their jackets over the backs of their chairs.

Ingrid and Felix arrive half-past the event’s intended start. A lengthy, tangential discussion of a harvest report discrepancy had pushed a late breakfast over the peak of lunchtime, and while Sylvain had never prided himself on punctuality Ingrid finds him already settled at a table when she steps onto the grass.

He has gone through every painful procedure to look presentable. He’s washed and dressed. His hair has been styled carefully, his face freshly shaven. He’s a prominent picture of a diplomat. He’s made a noble effort, but there is something haunted about the edges of his performance. His eyes are dark where they stare off into an unknown space.

It has been a long six months.

Sylvain’s opaque gaze catches sight of them, and his expression brightens. He smiles, broad, and stands to greet them.

“Felix,” he calls, loud and boisterous. His arms swing open wide. A few other trusted noble-types that have gathered in the garden lift their heads. The courtyard is a pale imitation of a traditional Faerghan engagement party, but it’s as quiet and casual as The King intended. Sylvain’s voice breaks the hushed atmosphere.

“Don’t—” Felix starts, Sylvain’s arms overtaking him. Felix groans. “Fine, then. As you see fit.”

“I have missed you, my friend,” Sylvain tells him, his hug crushing.

“Yes, yes,” Felix says.

“My dearest,” Sylvain continues, “my heart, my light, the cruel saboteur of my ill-fated wedding—”

“Get off of me.”

Sylvain laughs and pulls back from his best friend. He turns attention to Ingrid with equal smarm. “My heart,” he repeats to her, “my light, my true, actual, beloved saboteur.”

“Hello, beloved,” she says in turn.

He’s still smiling as he reaches into his jacket pocket. He tugs out a simple, cloth bag tied with a ribbon and presents it to her.

“Your gift,” Sylvain says.

“Thank you,” Ingrid replies, taking it from him.

She feels the small wooden hoop beneath the fabric and briefly doubts its worthiness as a wedding present. She casts such insecurity aside and tucks the package in her own jacket. Sylvain has looped an arm around Felix’s shoulders, now, and is guiding him towards the table he was sat at. He chatters something about Felix’s love life and Felix barks out something about there being enough weddings this year for the next decade. Ingrid is about to follow when a commotion breaks out across the garden.

A creature, scaled and the size of an oversized dog, scampers across the lawn. It leaves chunks of upheaved dirt where its claws break the grass. It is a pale white. A wyvern—too small in stature to be over a year old. A young girl clutches to its back. She shrieks in delight as it couriers her across the courtyard.

Ammeline is smiling. She pays no attention to Ingrid as her wyvern mount rushes past. She lets out a yell and a familiar voice calls behind her: “pull up on his horns, princess! Don’t worry, he can take it!”

King Khalid of Almyra chases them. He jogs effortlessly after the pair, shouting, “just like that! See if you can get him to slow down!”

Ammeline’s lips are pursed in determination as she follows his instruction. Her hands fumble to find the creature’s horns as she tugs them back. The albino wyvern’s head tips towards her. It lets out a bay of contempt, a snort, and then its pace stutters out. It slides to a stop over the garden’s grass. Ammeline giggles and reaches down to pet the creature on the side of its face. It’s a pleasing sight, for all the chaos it has caused.

Khalid’s own run stalls just before Ingrid. He takes a breath, slightly winded, and waves to The Princess. “Good work!” he calls. 

Ammeline waves back. “I did it!” she yells.

“I know, I saw the whole thing!” he replies. To Ingrid’s surprise, he gestures over to her, “Auntie Ingrid did as well!”

 _“Auntie,”_ Ingrid echoes, put off by the term and his sudden acknowledgment. 

Khalid laughs and turns to face her. “Ingrid,” he chimes, his arms open. “It’s been too long. Since the war, at least. A lifetime.”

She chooses to bow instead of embrace him. “Your Majesty,” she greets.

“Come, now. I’m still Claude to you, aren’t I? On some purer level than politics?” he says, chiding.

“Not since you so off-handedly mentioned you were a foreign prince,” she says. Then, after a beat, “Claude.”

Ingrid has never been abundantly good in diplomacy but it does not take much for her to bring a grin to the King of Almyra’s face. They were schoolyard acquaintances, in their youth. Claude, Khalid, had always held something cousin to fondness for her, though she fears her own aggressiveness always kept him from pushing it further. 

“There, that wasn’t so hard,” Khalid says. “If you kept calling me King I might have slipped and called you Margravine—and then where would either of us be?”

Ingrid’s face crinkles and Khalid laughs. He slips an arm around her shoulder as if they were friends and Ingrid realizes, a bit belatedly, that he must think they are. Are they? She rolls her eyes as if they were children again. It’s easy to pretend that they are.

He leans close and says, “I heard about your little marriage grift.”

“I couldn’t possibly know what you mean,” she replies.

He laughs, again. “A scheme after my own heart,” he says. “I always knew you had it in you.”

He grants her a literal pat on the back. Ingrid gives him a stout nod in return. “And in you, a leader,” she says.

There’s another wave of shocked garden-goers and trampled plants. Ammeline has given her mount the order to charge, again. The young wyvern barrels through the gazebo in the center of the garden. Its wings, too young to fly, flap behind its every step. This time Ammeline looks decisively more deliberate in her control. Ingrid hears a teacup shatter and flinches.

“I suppose you’re responsible for this,” she says. 

“Ah, yes,” Khalid replies. “My wedding gift, for the happy couple.”

“Hand-delivered?” she questions, looking to their neighboring king. Fhirdiad is a long way from the capital of Almyra, even by sea, and Ingrid knew Queen Hilda was only a few short months from the delivery of his heir. A congratulatory letter and gift would have been customary.

“You know I’d never miss a party.” His response is deliberately easy.

Ingrid hums at this. “You’re here for diplomacy, then? Your wife has been smoothing things over well enough.”  
  
“Certainly knows how to work a room, that one.” Khalid’s smile does not drop but something does shift in his expression. He pauses. Ingrid watches him think. He states, casual, “actually, now that I think about it, a copy of a very interesting report came across my desk back in Almyra. Just something Lady Dominic wanted me to look over while we negotiated international student exchanges. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about such conspiracies.”

His levity does not dissuade the weight of his words. Ingrid’s eyes narrow. “Do not tease me when discussing serious matters,” she replies.

“Too serious for me.” The King of Almyra _winks_ at her. “I’d like to meet with the author of such an interesting report before I leave, of course. Maybe we can compare notes. But for now—well, I would hate to spoil an event as nice as this.”

Khalid steps backwards from her.

“You’ve come to help, then?” Ingrid asks.

“I told you, I came to party,” he replies, arms extending in his faux innocence. Ingrid finds his lack of straightforwardness painful. He’s still stepping away. A tiny wyvern bolts up behind him, weaving around his legs, and he—trips, the tail of the beast catching his ankle and sending him stumbling backwards. He’s knocked unbalanced a few steps, foot over foot. He catches himself with no amount of grace.

He laughs aloud, still standing.

“Uncle Claude!” the young, excitable voice of Ammeline yells. She dismounts from her new wyvern.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tells her, even as she rushes to his side. When she reaches him he lifts his fists as if to brawl an imaginary opponent. “See? Fighting fit.”

“But I’m not supposed to upset you!” Ammeline exclaims, “you, in particular!”

Khalid’s brow furrows. He dips down to a squat and asks, “now who told you that?”

“You’re a king,” she says instead of answers.

“And you’re a princess,” he smiles, firm, and adds, “don’t trouble yourself over a jester like myself. I’m tough to upset. In fact, your Auntie Ingrid used to bully me in school all the time.”

Ammeline’s gaze draws over to Ingrid with clear shock. Ingrid sighs, “I did not bully you.”

“She was so mean to me,” he tells Ammeline.

“I was a little too willing to berate you, at worst,” Ingrid says. “And I did not know you were a king.”

“She didn’t care, Princess. She didn’t! She spoke every berating word that passed her mind. She did know I was the next Archduke and not a single punch was pulled,” Khalid says.

“Did you really, Auntie Ingrid?” Ammeline asks. Ingrid is not sure if it’s in awe or horror. 

“So I’m officially an aunt, then?” she asks, breaking their eye contact. She looks to Khalid.

“Twice over, when Hilda pops out our own in due time,” he replies, as friendly and charming as always. “We’re all family here, aren’t we?” The tiny, gifted white wyvern slinks around his side and he pats it a few times on the head. It nuzzles at his palm, then skitters to take station at Ammeline’s side. The young princess laughs.

“...Very well,” Ingrid replies.

Khalid looks pleased to hear it. 

A solitary trumpet breaks out across the garden. It’s a simple announcement, again smaller than such an event would dictate, but it’s enough for the guests to cease their chatter and stand. 

King Dimitri enters, Dedue at his side. Dedue’s smile does not peek teeth but it’s still the broadest Ingrid has ever seen it. He is arm in arm with his king, his party outfit a smart, dark grey with patterned accents. It’s strange for him to strike an unarmored silhouette but it suits him, Ingrid decides. He looks happy.

Dimitri looks practically elated. A few guests approach them with well wishes. Ingrid notes a party of Duscur guests gather around Dedue, whose expression falls from pleased to somewhat embarrassed. Bashful, even dodging, as they speak their congratulations to him.

Ammeline abandons Ingrid and the King of Almyra in favor of her adoptive parents. She makes a beeline for them, a grin wide on her face.

“I should probably go say hello, explain the wyvern situation, all that,” Khalid says, passing by Ingrid. “Let’s talk later, hm?”

“I would like that,” she replies. She waves goodbye to him.

The crowd has thickened to a small mass of handshakes around Dimitri and Dedue. The simple ceremony of their wedding was to take place tomorrow with only a small circle of friends, so Ingrid supposes the gathered dignitaries were taking their chances for congratulations now. Ingrid will await her turn. She will always wait for His Majesty.

A light hand touches her elbow. She looks over to see Mercedes beside her, watching the party converge around the happy couple.

“Mercedes,” Ingrid greets.

“They look a picture, don’t they?” Mercedes says.

Ammeline has weaved her way through the legs of the gathered crowd and into the arms of Dimitri. Dimitri hoists her, her, a few years too old to be picked up like a toddler, into his broad arms. 

“Certainly,” Ingrid replies. 

“Ammeline seems to be getting along well, given everything,” Mercedes notes.

“Sylvain and I were able to track down her origins with a little coaxing,” Ingrid says.

“I heard. South Itha, correct?”

Ingrid nods. “Yes, unsurprisingly. Her mother was a dressmaker, and passed away just after the war.”

Mercedes gives a soft, sad sigh. “A rough start.”

“We’ll find out who’s responsible for this,” Ingrid says, further. She frowns. “Someone is. She was swept away by some opportunistic mystery men, we’re not sure who yet.”

“And delivered to Gautier a few months before her discovery,” Mercedes finishes, looking to Ingrid, now. “I should probably mention that I read your report.”

Ingrid grimaces. “Annette seems primed to share it around.”

“Only to those she trusts.”

A line has formed. Ingrid sees Ashe crafting it, herding the guests into proper order to meet The King and his soon-to-be husband. Ashe has a freckled, determined look upon his face. Many of the guests hold offerings. Every gift is presented to the couple. Dimitri’s hands are already full with his adopted daughter, but Ingrid sees Ammeline make a motion at herself. The girl begins to accept the gifts into her arms on his behalf. Dedue takes them from her when the amount grows too numerous, stacking them on a table beside the three of them.

“Is she well, truly?” Mercedes asks.

“She was never gravely injured, by some Goddess-deemed blessing,” Ingrid continues. “...At least not in a way that she’s voiced to us. According to her, the worst was the containment, and having her blood tested.”

“Healed in time,” Mercedes says, “by the Goddess’ heart.”

“Healed in time,” Ingrid agrees.

Mercedes hums sweetly. She says, almost off-hand, “and what of you?”

“Me?” Ingrid echoes.

“Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” Ingrid replies. “Sylvain has been struggling recently. I know he’s been writing to you—”

“I didn’t ask about Sylvain.”

Ingrid feels a bit chastised. Her cheeks heat, and she says, again, “I’m fine.”

“Sylvain wrote to me that you’ve been ill,” Mercedes says, “notably when you woke. Tired, all around. Peaked. Hungry. Nauseous. He’s worried about you. He has asked for my insight as to what that could possibly be.”

Mercedes’ words carry a certain, suggestive lilt. Ingrid feels more than chastised now. Mercedes knows. Mercedes knows, and yet Ingrid still refuses to give.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve been overworked,” she states.

“You’re pregnant,” Mercedes says, directly. “Clearly.”

Ingrid stiffens. “Clearly?”

“I can tell,” Mercedes replies, “healing magics provide certain... insights.”

Ingrid says, quietly, “fuck.”

Mercedes tilts her head to her. “I had my suspicions, of course. Newlywed sickness strikes even the most stalwart of women. But I informed Sylvain I’d speak to you in Fhirdiad, assess you in person.”

“So, you didn’t tell—”

“That’s not my place.”

“I haven’t...” Ingrid starts. “...I have not said anything to him. Yet. Thank you.”

“Congratulations.”

A familiar silence falls between them. It gives Ingrid too much room to think. She had thought she was being subtle. She had thought Sylvain was too preoccupied with his own conflicts, with Gautier, with Sreng, with his father. She and Sylvain had been fine for a few weeks after the incident. They had been busy, and Ingrid had thought that they would be okay.

And then one morning it seemed to hit him all at once. Sylvain fell into a haze of unseen illness. The same one Ingrid has seen him suffer under in fits and starts during their childhood, during school, and during the war. The one that haunts him, erratic, but never lasts longer than a moon.

It has been six months. The thought of him placing worry over her silent, meaningless stomach-churns atop his plate is almost too much to process.

“He’s such an idiot,” Ingrid says. “If I seemed so sick, if I was being so obvious, apparently, he should have put the pieces together himself.”

“He may know,” Mercedes replies. “He may have been playing coy to me, lest I tell you of his suspicions. He may have been goading me to prod you about it, just as I am now.”

“Who can say. It’s always some grand strategy game or a complete, uncompromised lack of tact with him,” Ingrid states.

Mercedes hums at this. “He may be waiting for you to initiate.”

“He wouldn’t,” Ingrid says. “We’re better now. We’ve been talking about things.”

“Then why haven’t you told him?”

Ingrid closes her eyes. She takes a long, deep breath. She thinks about the weeks and weeks of held tongues and half-hearted attempts. She thinks of all the confessions that have risen in her throat only to be shoved down by some uprooted memory of Sylvain, in his school uniform, freshly berated and covered in lovebites and joking to her that if he ever did conceive he would simply abandon the woman and his station and Ingrid and everything he’s ever had or been or will be for some rumored underbelly beneath Garreg Mach. Ingrid takes another long, deep breath. “You’re right, Mercedes. I’m a hypocrite. Thank you for reminding me.” She says it with more vitrol than she intends. Mercedes laughs, regardless.

Mercedes asks, for a final time, “are you well, Ingrid?”

Ingrid does not know how to reply. She does not know how she feels. She does not contemplate such things very often. “I’m…” she begins. “I cried in front of Felix this morning.”

“Oh!” Mercedes replies, with surprise.

“It wasn’t concerning grave news, or anything, but it was awful. He was so uncomfortable.”

“There’s no shame in that,” Mercedes affirms.

“Even so,” Ingrid says, “that’s not how we operate. As friends.”

“I think it’s nice,” Mercedes says. “You’ve changed a lot recently. Both of you. I can hear it even in your letters.”

“Even so,” Ingrid repeats.

The line has thinned before His Majesty. Ingrid feels the small weight of her present against her chest.

She gazes over at Mercedes. Mercedes, her hair kept short since the war and her nose round and her cheeks plump and the bow of her mouth smiling, and kind. Mercedes, who has always treated Ingrid with her own brand of compassion despite Ingrid’s varying levels of cruel rejection and reluctant acceptance.

“...I haven’t seen a physician,” Ingrid tells her. “Yet.”

Mercedes nods. “Let’s meet before you leave.”

“Thank you.”

Mercedes allows her to escape their conversation with little more than a smile and nod goodbye. Ingrid is happy to retreat from her wise gaze. Ingrid positions herself at the back of the short line to meet The King and future Prince Consort. She waits, patient. While she does her eyes scan across the crowd for Sylvain and Felix. She finds them. At Sylvain’s table. At the far edge of the garden. 

They’re speaking to one another. It is not as pleasant as their greeting. Ingrid cannot hear their words but she sees the crease of Sylvain’s brow as he speaks, fast and serious. Felix scowls at one particular phrase and snaps something back. Sylvain replies, words unknown, but Felix looks unsympathetic.

Sylvain laughs, but Ingrid senses that something is wrong.

A hand falls upon Ingrid’s arm. She jumps. Ashe, his glove on her bicep, jumps too. They both startle and recover and stare at one another.

“Hi!” Ashe says, dropping his hand. “Sorry—Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, you’re,” Ingrid says, taking a breath, “fine.”

There is no longer a line before her. Dimitri and Dedue and Ammeline look upon where she stands, frozen.

“Good day, Ashe,” Ingrid says.

“It’s your turn,” Ashe replies.

“I see that. Thanks.”

The royal family stands before her. Ingrid is uncertain on the timeline of the officiation of their family unit, having had her hands full with Gautier and Galatea the past six months. Most of her information had come from sparse notes from Felix’s letters— _Dimitri has been quite distracted in wooing his selected partner to marriage, proper, as if anyone has ever seen a courted man so already devoted—Dedue keeps pushing back on the logistics, the delicacy of the politics, and Dimitri keeps staring at him with such sickening longing across our strategy table—They’ve settled on a small ceremony, a selective guest list, for now, will write with more details when they arise—I told Dimitri that Ammeline prefers Dedue just to mindlessly aggravate him and instead His Majesty The Tempest King started tearing up with some unbridled, saccharine joy—I fear, dear Ingrid, that all the insults I use to corral the boar may be losing their edge—I am losing my edge—_

Ingrid approaches Dimitri and Ammeline first, and bows. Ammeline’s wyvern lies at their feet.

“Your Majesty,” Ingrid says, “congratulations.”

“Ingrid,” Dimitri replies, “my gratitude to your loyalty and service cannot be overstated.”

“All in the name of The Crown.”

“I cannot hug you at the moment,” Dimitri says, shifting Ammeline in his arms. “But please know that I am hugging you.”

“I can hug her,” Ammeline says. 

Ingrid shakes her head. “Oh, that’s not—”

“Would you for me, Amy? Thank you.” 

Dimitri smiles at Ingrid. Ammeline holds out her arms. Ingrid hesitates, and then steps into them. She gives Ammeline a stiff hug as Dimitri keeps the young girl aloft.

“Thank you, Aunt Ingrid,” Ammeline says when they are close. “I don’t think I told you? When you brought me here? I can’t remember. I’ve been thinking about it. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to…” Ingrid starts, but it fades when Ammeline squeezes her in another crushing embrace, the strength of it unbecoming of her appearance.

When Ingrid steps back it is to return to formality. “Congratulations,” she says, again, to all of them. She gives another short bow. “Galatea wishes to extend a modest gift on your most blessed of days. Two pegasi—a young breeding pair—on behalf of my County. The finest of their generation. They are already in the royal stables.”

“Thank you, Ingrid,” Dimitri says, as Dedue nods his head in acceptance and Ammeline yells out—

“A pegasus?” Then, “pegasus-es?” Then, as if drawing the connections in real time, “—a baby pegasus?”

“In due time,” Ingrid tells her.

Ammeline seems to vibrate with joy. “Can we ride, again?” she asks. “Like we did?”

“Of course,” Ingrid says.

“Before you leave?” she asks.

“Certainly,” Ingrid says, and smiles. “I will make time.”

Ammeline lets out a noise of delight. Dimitri laughs, and commends the gift. Dedue notes that they will have to get used to Ammeline in the air—side-eying the young wyvern at his feet. The wyvern seems to side-eye him back.

Ingrid turns to Dedue. She steps closer to him, holding up her forearm in a knight’s signal. Dedue lifts his own to meet hers. “Ingrid,” he says in greeting. Their arms touch like crossing blades, then pull down, dragging along and away in solidarity. It’s an ancient symbol. One she’s happy to share with her fellow knight on this heartfelt occasion.

“I can’t believe he convinced you,” she says to him. Dedue does not laugh but air huffs out his nose in a phantom of one.

“I am weak-willed to his wishes,” Dedue replies, a smile on his face.

“I have a gift,” Ingrid says, “for you.”

“You’ve already presented us with a lovely gift. Thank you.”

“It’s not from Galatea,” Ingrid says. “It’s not—it’s not very grand. But it is from me.”

“Unnecessary,” Dedue begins to say, as Ingrid reaches into her jacket.

She hands him the cloth bag. It’s tied with a pale, teal ribbon, with fabric indented with the shape of its contents. Ammeline and Dimitri watch as Dedue unties it.

He slides a plain wooden embroidery hoop from the bag. It holds a circle of white fabric in its clasp. Embroidered in the hoop is a crop of blossoms—pale pink, at the peak of their bloom, and misshapen from memory. Ingrid’s arms fall tense at her sides.

“It’s…” she attempts. She realized at the tip of the word that she doesn’t actually have anything to say that’s not obvious.

“Thank you, Ingrid,” Dedue says, a thumb tracing over the tight, somewhat uneven stitches. He examines the craftsmanship closer than Ingrid would prefer.

“I figured these ones won’t dry out...” Ingrid says. Dedue flips over the hoop. “—Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.”

A tangle of knots and awkward loops of thread litter the back of the embroidery hoop. Ingrid feels her cheeks heat up. Dedue quickly flips it back over.

“Thank you,” he repeats. “This is lovely. I did not know you embroidered.”

“I don’t, clearly,” Ingrid says, trying to ignore how red she feels. “Sylvain made me pick up a hobby a few months ago.”

Dedue’s brow lifts in surprise, and some amusement. “And you’ve chosen embroidery?”

“Sylvain said the general concept of horses didn’t count as a hobby,” Ingrid replies. “So. Embroidery.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Dedue turns to set the gift on the table beside him. It overflows with presents. He clears a few aside, and gently places the hoop at the base of a vase. It’s a very ornate vase, painted and glazed with geometric patterns. A barren plant sticks up from within it, and Ingrid realizes it is not a vase at all but rather a planter. A pot, holding soil and life. The plant is dormant in its container, only a few leaves sticking out from the sprawling, knotted branches of an off-season bush—but Ingrid knows what has taken root in it.

“That’s the real thing,” she says, “isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dedue replies.

“All the way from Duscur?”

“Yes.”

Ingrid tears up against her will for the second time that day. She shoves her hand across her face, hiding it. “Sorry,” she says. “Apologies. I’m just—I’m happy.”

She does not look to her fellow knight. She dares not meet his gaze for fear of feeling.

“It’s alright, Ingrid,” Dedue says.

“I wish the best for you.” She shuts her eyes to fend off another wave of unwelcome emotion. “I’m really happy for you, both of you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

She steps back, and sniffs. She tries to ignore the glowing face of her King, gazing upon her, as she straightens her body and expression to something presentable. 

“I should… move along,” she says, to both of them, “you still have a lot of well wishes and thank yous to grant, I’m sure.” There is no one behind her in line.

“Thank you again for your presents, and your presence,” Dimitri tells her.

“Right,” Ingrid replies, unable to keep eye contact. “You’re always welcome. I should—Sylvain. Sylvain has a gift, on behalf of Gautier. I don’t think he’s met with you yet. I will herd him here.”

Dimitri laughs. Dedue says, “you should visit the three of us, soon. Outside of the formalities of a line.”

“Yes, please, whenever you’re in need of a vacation. You’re always welcome in Fhirdiad,” Dimitri adds.

“I would like that,” Ingrid replies. She knows her eyes are wet but she does not want to acknowledge them. “A great deal. Please take care of yourselves, in the meantime.”

Ingrid turns from them with instant relief. She shoves her jacket sleeve across her face. She’s properly embarrassed, yet she’s not sure what she would have changed about their meeting. Less crying, probably. Less crying was always preferred. She’s not sure what’s wrong with her but she wishes it did not involve inopportune crying.

She looks for Sylvain and Felix. She sees Ashe with no crowd to keep in order, planting himself before Dimitri and Dedue for his own round of congratulations. She sees Claude, leaning back in a garden chair and chatting with a few Duscur guests like old friends. She sees Mercedes—and Annette, the smaller woman looking tired but pleased as she speaks over a teacup at her oldest friend. She has tiny, half-moon glasses perched on her nose. Ingrid wonders when she got them. She has not kept up with Annette through letters. She should seek the accomplished professor out before she departs, concerning the report if nothing else.

She sees Sylvain. Her gaze catches on a flash of his red hair ducking around a corner. 

Sylvain, in all his finery, escapes from the garden to all eyes except hers. Felix follows behind him. Felix’s expression is grave. Ingrid squints, and moves to follow the both of them where they trail into twisting paths away from the festivities.

They turn down another hall, and another, and Ingrid hears a door open but not close. Ingrid peeks around the corner and sees them standing alone in one of the many abandoned corridors branching throughout Castle Fhirdiad. Sylvain has opened a dark oaken door but Felix seems to be refusing to step through it.

“I’m here. Am I allowed to make a scene now?” Felix’s voice is sharp as it echoes across the stone floor. Ingrid is not one for subterfuge. She’s about to step out to ask of their secrecy when Sylvain says—

“Ingrid’s pregnant.”

There’s a thin whistle of breath through Felix’s teeth.

“She’s told you this?” It’s not an admission of his own knowledge. Ingrid is thankful, but silent. She ducks back behind her corner and listens. It’s unfair to Sylvain, maybe, but there’s a sick thirst in her stomach to hear what he has to say without her having to do the work of a confession. The situation is, unfortunately, ideal. She clenches her eyes shut and tries not to question her motives.

“No,” Sylvain answers. It takes him a second. “No, she hasn’t. Which is—that’s a whole separate issue. But I know she’s pregnant.”

“How?”

“I’ve been reading more of my,” Sylvain says, “books.”

“More magic texts, then?” Felix asks. Ingrid can’t see Sylvain’s reaction but he must confirm, somehow, because Felix continues, “you’re certain?”

“I sensed something was off but I couldn’t put my finger on it until I...” Sylvain sighs. “I don’t know how to explain it. Things have shifted. Everything has shifted.”

“That’s not a bad thing.” The echo of Felix’s voice fades to silence. Felix says, after a beat, “you thought I would lash out about this? Make a scene? Am I so ornery in that foolish head of yours?”

“I thought you would berate me for not being careful, or something. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

“I should be congratulating you. In fact, I will. Congratulations, Sylvain.”

“You told me not to knock her up,” Sylvain states, almost hisses.

Ingrid’s heart flutters.

Felix scoffs. “Yes. When we were at _war,”_ he replies. “This is expected. Why are you so frantic?”

The silence is deafening. Ingrid hears footsteps approach where she lingers. “Never mind,” Sylvain says.

“What?”

“Never mind. I’ve got a packet of Srengi seeds I need to present to the happy couple. Very important diplomatic business, I’m sure you understand.”

The footsteps draw nearer and Ingrid’s pulse picks up. She’s about to pull herself from the wall and dart down the hall when Felix says, “don’t walk away from me.”

The footsteps stop.

“Sylvain. We had a promise.”

Sylvain laughs, and says, “if you’re about to bring up our deathpact to goad me into talking about my feelings, I will end both of us right here.”

“Not that promise.”

“I have promised you a great many things, Felix, but I only ever plan to keep the big one.”

“You promised me you would write to me if it got bad.”

“And I will write to you if that happens.”

Sylvain’s voice is near, just around the bend of the wall. Ingrid begins to quietly step back. She has heard too much. Guilt wracks her. She should have never been so bold. She is not so deceitful. She moves further down the hall and eyes another corridor, breaking off from the one that reverberates Sylvain’s voice when he says:

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Felix’s voice is firm. “You’re unwell. You said you were overwhelmed. What was that entire conversation we had in the garden?”

“I was simply unloading on you. It sounds bad, all grouped together like that.”

“Unloading.”

“Yes.”

A wave of nausea overtakes Ingrid. Sylvain is sicker than he’s confessed to her, then. She keeps her path, slinking backwards from the two of them.

“If you don’t want me to care about you rotting in front of me, I won’t bother,” Felix states, aggravated. “But then you’d better keep it together. Without me. And without Ingrid.”

“Of course,” Sylvain replies, simply.

“Sylvain,” Felix states. “Don’t mistake me for apathetic. If you implode, and Ingrid is even remotely in the vicinity, I’ll kick your ass.”

“I’ve got this.”

“I’ll end you.”

“Alright.”

Felix lets out a frustrated breath. “If you tell Ingrid—if you even imply to Ingrid that you don’t want this, that you’re too _overwhelmed_ when she’s already doing the majority of your duty, I will—”

“Okay, Felix,” Sylvain replies, flat. “I understand.”

This, more than anything, is what sets Ingrid to flee. She’s not a coward, and she’s not a sneak, but she feels like both when she drags herself away. She escapes back towards the garden. She has to travel beneath its great glass ceiling to retreat to her rooms. She passes by The King and his uncontested beloved having tea. She passes by Mercedes and Annette, who call out an invite for her to join them. She ignores them, and passes by Claude, who has pulled dice from seemingly nowhere and is teaching the rules to a party game. She passes by Ashe, who innocently asks her if something is wrong.

“Nothing,” she snaps at him, and departs. 

It occurs to her, when she has shut the door to her empty quarters and shoved closed the curtains of their snowy overlook, and when the cold, intended darkness has settled over all sides of her, that she wants her father.

It’s a rare feeling, more common in her youth than anything past the age of thirteen. Her face morphs into strange configurations that attempt to block incoming crests of upset. She has been avoiding the thought since her arrival, but the looming truth is that her father is incarcerated somewhere in the city. Her father is in Fhirdiad—awaiting trial, awaiting to find if the slim evidence linking his involvement with attempted regicide will sentence him to an ill fate. He has been stripped of Galatea by his own inaction and Ingrid has not spoken to him, barely thought of him. Somewhere in their county Ingrid’s mother walks their estate’s halls like a ghost, haunted with shame, and Ingrid’s brother manages the day-to-day house in Ingrid’s stead while she makes major decisions from all the way in Gautier; far, far, away from their family’s humiliation. 

But her father is here. Her father is in Fhirdiad. She could walk to him, right now, if she so dared.

Her father is here. She does not care, at the moment, that he nearly got her killed. She wants to tell him that she’s pregnant. She wants to unpack every angle of her situation upon him. She wants to tell him that she’s achieved everything he wanted: she’s married, she’s pregnant, she’s the wife of a rich, crested noble, she’s provided funds to Galatea, she’s been relegated away from her knighthood, she’s been a good wife, a supportive wife, and look, her hair is growing out. She wants to yell at him that she’s done everything he’s asked. She’s done everything, everything, and she doesn’t know what to do now. She wishes he would tell her what to do now.

She wants help, maybe. She wants to talk to someone, maybe, but the list of people she’s willing to cry in front of is short. Her father is in a nebulous, imprisoned space at the top. Her mother? Her brothers? Never. Sylvain—Sylvain was half the reason for her emotions, through no fault of his own. She has already cried in front of Felix today, and His Majesty, and Dedue. She would die if she considered so much as sniff in their direction for at least a year. Mercedes is out of the question.

She should really cut her hair again. She should cut her hair. It’s getting long. She should do that. She should go do that right now.

“Ingrid?”

Ingrid realizes she’s still standing at the window, staring off into space. Her hands clasp the drawn, dark velvet of the curtains. She has no idea how long she has been stationed before them while in her thoughts.

She looks over her shoulder, and Sylvain is there.

She knows she looks like a mess. He notices, he must, because he says, “what’s happened?”

“Nothing,” she tells him, wiping her eyes with the side of her hand. 

“Sure looks like a whole lot of nothing,” Sylvain replies, light. He approaches her. He settles a hand on her waist, heavy and prompting. “Let’s sit you down.” His other hand rises to cover hers. It gently pries her away from the curtains. “There we go. Take it easy.”

Ingrid allows herself to be sat on the bed. Sylvain leans down and kisses her forehead, and her cheek—at the very top, where short tears have dried. He slinks down to a kneel on the floor. He rests himself between her legs, patient and smiling at her feet, an ever-present canine. He rests his head against her thigh, mouth absently pressed to the interior of her pants. He drags a hand up the back of her leg and she says, “don’t.”

“Hm?”

“I’m not in the mood to be seduced,” she replies.

Sylvain gazes up at her, brow raised in mock surprise. “Me? Seducing you?” he defends, his mouth still half-pressed to the inside of her knee.

“Yes,” she says.

“Nary a thought,” he replies.

“Surely.” She kicks him lightly with the leg he has curled himself around. He dramatically falls away from her, dipping back from his kneel to a sit. His palms plant themself firmly upon the floor. He grins at her. The relief of their usual levity is a thin bandage over the angst welling up in Ingrid’s heart, but it is just a bandage.

“Talk to me, ‘Grid,” Sylvain says. Then, as if the very notion of his words are too much to handle, tacks on, “Griddle.”

“Griddle,” Ingrid parrots at him.

“I’m trying something new,” he says.

“I’m pregnant,” she replies.

She waits.

His expression does not falter, and he does not blink. He nods, once, and continues to smile when he says, “okay.”

“Okay?” she says.

“Okay,” he affirms, from the floor. She gazes down at him and awaits any sense of a more concrete reaction. “Fuck, Ingrid, yes. Okay. I love you.”

He’s not lying to her. Ingrid would know if he was lying to her. It’s genuine, but she can’t tell if it’s rehearsed. “You seem pleased,” she notes.

“You’re not?” Only now does Sylvain seem concerned. “Ashe found me in the gardens. He said he thought you looked upset. Is this what that was about?”

“No,” she says.

“Then tell me what’s worrying you,” Sylvain prompts. He leans back towards her, between her legs. “We should be celebrating. I want to celebrate with you.”

“It’s not…” Ingrid’s mouth tugs down. “Why are you acting like everything is alright?”

Sylvain is quiet for a moment. He says, to her, “because we’re going to be alright.”

“Don’t be so overly sentimental.”

“I’m serious. We’re going to be fine. I’ve got a lot of outstanding bets on it.”

“You don’t have to like this,” Ingrid states, voice rising. “You don’t.”

“Why wouldn’t I love this,” Sylvain replies. “I love you.”

“You don’t want kids. You’ve told me.”

“I want yours,” he says, voice lifting to meet hers. His face is harder, now. His words, direct.

Ingrid’s face scrunches. “I have no idea where you’re at,” she admits. “I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know how to _support_ you. And now I’m thrusting this onto your shoulders and expecting you to simply deal with it.”

“Hey now. If anyone thrusted anything anywhere, it was me,” Sylvain says. He laughs, but Ingrid keeps her face stoic and her eyes closed.

“Sylvain,” she says.

“I’m right here,” he says, in turn.

“I don’t know where you’re at,” she repeats.

“I will…” Sylvain takes a deep breath. “I will tell you. We can talk about it. I’m ready for this. I can be ready for this.”

“Sylvain,” she says, again.

“Still here. Always here.”

“I don’t know where I’m at.”

Sylvain does not respond.

They linger there for too long. Ingrid, queen of silences, marinates in the poison of the tension.

Eventually, Sylvain stands. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t pepper her with kisses. He doesn’t drag a hand along her body. Instead, he presses his palm to the center of her chest. He pushes, and keeps pushing, until her back hits the quilt of their bed. She expects him to climb atop her but he does not. He lays himself beside her, his hands tucked politely against his stomach. He lays down beside her and they stare at the ceiling together, their legs bent over the edge of the mattress and the sides of their arms touching.

“Tell me how you feel,” he says.

“If I knew I would,” she snaps back.

“...Okay,” he says, “then we can share things until we do. All our little secrets. I’ll start.”

He does not start. Ingrid does know how to reply. “On your sword, then,” she relents. 

Another long moment passes. They aren’t in any rush, but there is a deadline. There are thousands of incoming moments to seize, but they are not unlimited. Ingrid figures they have roughly six months worth of moments to piece together a working draft of everything within them, and between them.

Sylvain sighs. “Actually,” he says, “I’m a coward. You start.”

Ingrid groans. “You’re the worst,” she says.

“You can keep it small, for now,” Sylvain calls, attempting to defend himself. “Just a little piece of yourself, just so I know. You’ve got this.”

“The worst,” Ingrid says.

“I know, I know.”

Ingrid closes her eyes. “Fine,” she says. “I’ve known I was pregnant for over two moons and I didn’t tell you.”

“My turn,” Sylvain says, “I knew.”

“My turn,” Ingrid says, “I overheard you telling Felix that you knew. You sounded upset about it.”

Sylvain is quiet for more than a few moments. It’s alright. They have many.

“I’ve been upset about a lot of things, recently, and visibly,” Sylvain states, “but not about this. Scared, maybe. Confused why you weren’t telling me, yes. But not upset. Never upset.”

“Scared?”

“Ingrid, I am absolutely terrified to be your husband.”

Ingrid snorts, and looks over at him. His long, uneven bangs fall aside where they usually cover his face.

“...You need a haircut,” she says.

He laughs. “Is that your secret?”

“No,” she says, “my secret is that I’m scared that I’m a terrible wife.”

He rolls his eyes, and then looks at her the way he always looks at her when he wants to kiss her. He restrains himself. He says, “Gautier would be a giant, solitary nest of gloom if not for your deft hand, my dear wife. I would not be here without you.”

“I know, and I’m scared it isn’t enough.”

“You’re enough, Ingrid.”

“I’m scared you’re going to kill yourself.”

Sylvain goes rigid beside her. His face falls. Ingrid is concerned she’s hurt him, slapped him, blindsided him, harmed him. Ingrid is terrified, as always, that she’s stepped too far outside the expected and ruined everything.

“I won’t,” he states.

“I’m trusting you,” Ingrid says, “not to. But I’m still scared.”

“I won’t,” Sylvain breathes out, “I won’t, I won’t. I promise. Look at me, Ingrid. I promise.”

Ingrid is already looking at him.

“I promise,” he says.

“Thank you,” she tells him.

“Fuck,” he says, “fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I am worried. Sometimes I worry it's my natural state.”

“—I know that it’s been... You don’t have to understand this. I would never ask you to understand this, but...” He’s distressed. “I miss my father.” He flinches. “I know. I shouldn’t. I do.”

“...It’s okay,” she tells him.

“It’s not.”

“It’s…” Ingrid trails off. Sylvain has eyes only for the ceiling, again. She says, “it’s not the same, but I miss my father too.” Sylvain doesn’t respond. “I can’t forgive him, but I still feel strongly for him. It’s… It’s like I don’t know what to do with myself, if he’s not asking me to do it. It’s—It’s not the same. I know it’s not the same.” She should probably stop talking. “I have plans, goals. I have tasks I need to accomplish this very week. But I still feel directionless.”

Sylvain’s eyes stay trained upwards. They’re wet, but he nods. Slow and certain.

“Okay,” Ingrid says, self-struck dumb. “I don’t know what else to say. This is what I’m talking about when I say I don’t know how to help. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry my father tried to kill you,” Sylvain says. “I’m sorry I’m still so torn up about him.”

“You’re allowed to grieve.”

“I keep stopping myself, usually because I remember he tried to kill you.”

Ingrid frowns. “That’s probably why we’re here, now.”

Sylvain closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, he lets out a huff of a laugh, “probably.” Then, “every time I try to dig into what I’m feeling, a whole system of memories gets uprooted alongside it. And I give in.”

“I wish I could help,” Ingrid says.

“You are. I cannot express how much you are.”

Ingrid turns on her side and wraps an arm around him. Her legs curl up onto the bed. She shimmies closer to him, as close as she can get.

“You’re going to do it all, you know? Gautier, Sreng, Fódlan, our family. You’re going to accomplish everything you tell me you want to, even though you feel like this right now,” she says.

Sylvain stays silent.

“I love you,” she says, again and always. 

“Is it your turn? I think that was your turn. That’s a terrible secret,” Sylvain replies. 

“It is,” she relents. “Let’s see... How about this. I want your children.”

“Children?”

“I want your one child, for now,” she says.

“Even if they don’t have a crest?”

“Even if they do,” she confirms. “Your turn.”

Sylvain smiles. “I’ve had a crush on you since we were young.”

Ingrid snorts. “That’s not a secret.”

“Fine, then. I’m really happy you improvised a reality where you were married to me.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“It is your turn.”

“I feel like I’ve been haphazardly generating my reality for a while, now,” she says.

Sylvain chuckles. “You’re good at it,” he says. “A sorceress.”

“I’m trying not to make it a habit,” Ingrid says. “Your turn.”

Sylvain hums. “We’re going to have to talk about all of this,” he says. “We haven’t spoken about any of it, not really. We’ve just made a list of things to talk about eventually. We’re going to have to actually, truly do it, at some point.” He pauses, and says, “I don’t want to. That’s my secret.”

“We’ll make our way through all of it,” Ingrid replies. “Eventually.”

Sylvain says, “I want to take a nap.”

“We can take a nap. I know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I want to be better,” Sylvain says, “for you. I want to do more. But I also want to take a nap.”

“It’s not mutually exclusive.”

“I’m so terrified you’ll think I’m lazy, Ingrid, I just…”

“Let’s take a nap,” Ingrid says, strong. She places a hand on his cheek. She states the truth when she tells him: “...Sylvain, I’m tired too.”  
  


  
It’s late in the library that serves as Felix’s makeshift second office. It’s the night before the royal wedding, and Sylvain and Ingrid sit on a couch in front of their first and oldest friend. 

Felix pushes their marriage certificate across the low coffee table. He dips a quill, and thrusts it to Sylvain. “You first.”

Ingrid holds Sylvain’s hand as he leans over to sign. They’re already married, in her heart, but there’s something jarring about the officialness of signatures. She never really envisioned this day after Glenn passed, and certainly not during the war. She never thought she’d make it this far. She’s fairly certain Sylvain did not either.

Sylvain signs slow but sure. Ingrid watches him. Her eyes float across the elaborate text, again, and catch on the date. 

“You’re sure you want it to be on your birthday?” she asks as Sylvain lifts his pen from the paper. 

“If we’re changing the date, you’re on your own for re-collecting signatures,” Felix bites out in response. 

“I’m sure,” Sylvain nods to her, ignoring Felix. “Only anniversary flowers going forward, alright?”

“As you wish,” Ingrid agrees.

He hands her the quill.

Her signature is a bit plain, and her hand wobbles as she sets it down in thick, shimmering ink. The letters seem to glide from her unconsciously. She feels lightheaded.

When she lifts her hand, Sylvain tilts her face towards him and kisses her. She kisses him back. He mouths at her, his actions too intimate for an audience, and says—against her lips, ”I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a proper wedding.”

“I don’t want a wedding,” she replies.

“You deserve a wedding.”

“I don’t need a wedding.”

“I know, but still. I love you.”

“I love you.”

There’s a strained sigh from the other end of the coffee table. Ingrid and Sylvain both peek over to see Felix’s eyes rimmed with wetness. His mouth is a constructed, off-kilter line. His hand is balled into a fist.

Felix says: “don’t touch the paper. That ink will take twenty minutes to seep and dry.”

“Are you really crying?” Sylvain asks, and Ingrid smacks the side of his arm. 

“You two have put me through several nightmares these past few years,” Felix replies, sour. “I’m allowed.”

“Aw, Felix,” Sylvain says, “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“I did and I do. Don’t be obtuse.”

“We love you, too,” Sylvain chimes.

“Ugh,” Felix says.

“We really do,” Ingrid adds.

“Ugh,” Felix replies. “I hate this. I hate both of you.”

Ingrid smiles at him, and says, “It’s alright, Felix. Thank you for coming to our wedding.”

  
  
  
  
  
That night, Sylvain falls asleep with his hand on Ingrid’s stomach. He sleeps deep, but she’s unsure if it is well. He mumbles indecipherable things as the moon rises high above Castle Fhirdiad. They rest nose to nose. It’s comfortable, and safe, despite all looming apprehension. Ingrid feels as if weight has been lifted off of her despite no fundamental shift in surroundings. It’s soothing.

“Whatever’s to come,” she murmurs to the sleeping figure of her husband, “and whatever it takes.”

Stronger together.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> As Margrave Gautier, Sylvain devoted his life to improving relations with the people of Sreng. Under his leadership, nobles were persuaded that Relics and Crests were not necessary as they'd previously thought. Though he went down in history as an extraordinary lord, he could not have done so without the constant support and counsel of his wife, Ingrid, whose wisdom and tenacity ensured that the people would prosper. Sylvain was ever loyal to his beloved wife. The couple had many children, and while not one of them bore a Crest, they were all equally and wholeheartedly loved.


End file.
